A Bureaucratic Wall
Holmes sat brooding, his disgruntled air a clear indication that he was taking the case against his better judgment, but I could see that the notion of branding a man a “deserter” bothered him. Without sufficient cause such a tarnishing of a young man’s life in death was bothersome.
“Watson, my good man, I think it is time for us to make a trip to the Admiralty.”
“You mean to start the investigation this very moment?” Our new client had only just departed.
“The sooner we begin, the sooner, inevitably, we conclude the case. Given the financial circumstances you are so keen to remind me of, I feel my time is better used in solving Mrs. Wynter’s dilemma than burning more cigars today.” I wasn’t about to argue with that particular deduction.
The incessant rain had lightened but not desisted altogether, so we dressed in our topcoats despite the summer heat, and descended to Baker Street, where Holmes flagged down a hansom. We rolled down Regent Street and through Piccadilly Circus. The rain had not kept the city’s inhabitants indoors; the shops appeared to be doing a fine trade. Holmes kept his own counsel during the journey, no doubt making many observations, filing away titbits of information for another time. The cab rolled on, steel rims clanking on the hard surface, down past Charing Cross and around until we began to see the first buildings of Whitehall rising before us. The centre of government was both a daunting and an inspiring sight, the true beating heart of this great land of ours.
The Admiralty was housed in a splendid building constructed by the famed architect Thomas Ripley and finished more than a century and a half earlier. It was an imposing structure, sturdy in its white stone and brown brick, with a low wall in front with three entrances, added many years after the main three-storey building.
We passed through the central entrance and across the courtyard, past the two long arms of the building on either side of us, towards the main doors. Despite having served with the army I had never had cause to visit the Admiralty and I admit I was suitably impressed with its serious and sober air. As one would expect, it had gravitas. We passed a variety of senior naval officers, their adjutants hurrying to keep up with them, carrying umbrellas to keep the woollen uniforms dry as the rain continued to fall.
Within, we were greeted by polished wood and marble corridors that led to a warren of offices barren of any appropriate signage, which caused us a momentary confusion.
“Watson, where do you think we should begin?” asked Holmes.
“I suppose we would begin with some sort of records office,” I said. “I admit, I would not know where to begin finding such an office without asking for assistance.”
“Why start with a lowly clerk?” asked Holmes. My companion was of a mind to seek a higher authority from the outset. He put himself before a harried-looking officer who was struggling with a stack of books and maps.
“Your pardon, sir, but I am seeking the Board of Admiralty.”
That announcement caused the officer and me to gape in surprise. As was typical of my companion, he was beginning at the very top of the organisation whereas I would have naturally begun with the clerks, the ones who always knew what’s what, and worked my way up. I could not fathom his reasoning, but watched with curiosity.
“They meet on the top floor,” the man said in a rough voice. “Are you expected?”
“No,” Holmes said and proceeded toward a staircase without waiting to be challenged.
I followed him in silence, doing my best to keep up as we worked our way to the top floor and there found offices for the Board of Admiralty, the leading advisors to the Admiral of the Fleet. Sir Alexander Milne had only recently been appointed to the post and I very much doubted that Holmes intended to see the man himself but with Holmes one never knew.
Without knocking, my companion swung open a heavy oak door and confronted a startled young man in uniform who sat with a stack of papers on his small, untidy desk.
“Good day, sir, I wish to make an inquiry about a missing naval officer,” Holmes began without preamble, putting the clerk immediately at a disadvantage in what was about to become their conversation. The clerk blinked once, then twice, slowly rising and revealing himself to be about a head shorter than Holmes, twenty years of age, if that. There was still some boyish fat to his cheeks and his pale complexion implied he was deskbound and had not been to sea this year, if ever. A quick exchange of names revealed his to be Pegg and he hesitated each time he spoke, displaying a combination of caution and some nervousness.
“You say a missing officer?”
“Quite. He served aboard the Dido and did not return with it last month. I’d like to find him.”
The clerk was clearly flummoxed, unaccustomed to a civilian walking in and making demands. He seemed uncertain if he should reply or summon help. I almost pitied the man.
“I, ah, well, I certainly have no such information in this room, sir, nor is it the Royal Navy’s habit of providing it to anyone other than members of the service,” said Pegg, finally finding his voice; one, I might add, that sounded less the able seaman and every bit the bureaucrat.
“Is it also the navy’s habit to misplace their lieutenants?”
That gave Pegg pause. I interjected, to try and persuade him as to the correctness of our cause. “I myself have served in Her Majesty’s army and while not the same service, as it were, still related to the protection of the empire. I do hope you can be of assistance.”
“A lieutenant from the Dido?” he repeated.
“Quite right. If you lack such information, who on this floor might be able to provide it?”
“Records are not on this floor,” the man said finally, with an audible gulp.
“How good are these records?”
“Her Majesty’s Royal Navy has maintained exemplary records for centuries,” he said with pride.
“And yet you cannot seem to keep track of a sailor from this very year,” Holmes observed, with no trace of humour in his voice.
“I would ask that you redirect your inquiry to the Office of Records, first floor, left wing,” the officer said, addressing me and pointedly averting his gaze from Holmes.
“A moment, sir,” Holmes said. Pegg paused and finally looked up again to meet his eyes.
“Yes?” He was clearly trying to sound officious, but his youth undermined him.
“The Board of Admiralty. This is the decision-making body of the Royal Navy?”
“Yes it is.”
“Are they always in the habit of wasting the taxpayer’s funds?”
The poor man blinked. I myself had no idea what Holmes was getting at.
“The hallways are carpeted.”
“Fine Persian rugs, imported decades ago I am told,” said he.
“Someone was taken in by fakes, and not very good ones at that,” Holmes said.
Poor Pegg looked torn between instinctively defending the fraudulent flooring and wanting to know how Holmes could possibly know they were counterfeit. “What do you mean?”
“If you would be so kind,” Holmes said, using a slight gesture to indicate the man was to follow him out of the office. Indeed, the man rose as curiosity got the better of him. He obediently and slowly followed Holmes just past the threshold and turned his attention to the rug he no doubt ignored during his time in the building.
“The Persians are known for their rugs because of the level of craftsmanship, design, and ability to wear for many years,” Holmes said. “Even in a building such as this, with a high level of foot traffic, they should hold up. Instead, you will see that this example—” he turned and knelt on the carpet in the corridor “—is in the process of unravelling in certain places. Additionally, true Persian dyes are permanent and these carpets are beginning to fade. Note if you will, the deep blues along the edges are still in reasonable shape, but where the foot treads more frequently, they have grown several shades lighter. Upon closer inspection, you will find other patterns and colours beneath. This was once an entirely different carpet, remade to resemble Persian, and someone in the procurement department was duped.”
The speechless young man stared at Holmes who returned the look. “Do keep a better eye on our funds. They are not inexhaustible,” Holmes said and turned on his heel. I followed him and we left.
“Really, Holmes, must you be so harsh? He clearly was not responsible,” said I.
“While accurate, he still represents an administration that has proven lax on several accounts,” Holmes replied.
Having descended the stairs to the Office of Records, we were brought up short by yet another uniformed clerk, this one a veteran, balding and with ruddy cheeks. He clearly was nearing the end of a career, this final station his nominal reward until retirement. He had dark eyes and a rough look about him, one who had served at sea and taken its measure. This was not a man meant to be behind a desk, and resentment radiated from him. He gave us a stern look. It did not discourage Holmes. If something was guaranteed to make the man intractable, it was scorn.
“I was directed by Admiral Milne’s office to come see you regarding the whereabouts of a seaman from the Dido,” Holmes said and I began to see his genius. Having come from the Admiral’s office, he now carried a sense of right that went beyond any sort of underling camaraderie and should be enough to convince the clerk of our authority.
“But you are civilians,” the man—whose name turned out to be Hampton—said, pointing out the obvious. His very manner indicated he was not here to be of service.
“I can see why you’re in records, your observation is most astute,” Holmes said drily. Hampton glared in return at the remark.
“Civilians are not permitted to examine the Royal Navy archive,” Hampton said.
“Does that extend to the family of your men?”
“We can give them some information,” replied he. Retrieving information from this man would be like extracting a cracked tooth.
“Some?”
“That’s right. Some of the information is classified and not for the general public. Are you seeking information about a family member, then?” He folded his arms before his ample stomach and stared defiantly at Holmes.
“I am here on behalf of a mother who was given ‘some’ information but it proved insufficient.”
“And you think that by showing up in person you might gain additional information?” the clerk said, taking refuge in the bureaucracy of his position. His beefy arms remained fixed before him, a solid barrier.
“Now see here—” I said. I was ready to cause a mild disturbance, irritated at such treatment from fellow military men, but Holmes waved me into silence and remained calm.
“The Admiral’s officer did indicate you would be helpful,” Holmes repeated.
“Yes, I can be, but only to a degree. I cannot simply divulge what could be sensitive information. As I am sure you will understand, I will also need documentation identifying the fact that you are as you purport, and actually represent the woman in question.” There was little respect in his tone or manner.
“A valid point, Mr. Hampton,” Holmes admitted. “Let us do this: please consult your records of the HMS Dido and please acknowledge that Lieutenant Norbert Wynter was serving on the ship during its recent posting to the Cape.”
“Will you go away then?”
“If you provide me with what we seek, then of course,” said Holmes. “If not, I am perfectly willing to wait to speak with your superior officer.” Then he placed his arms before him, mirroring Hampton’s posture. It was a confrontation that Hampton did not have a prayer of winning.
Sure enough, after several long silent moments, Hampton turned around. The clerk scribbled the name on a sheet of paper, thrust his pencil down, and without a word retreated out of sight. He was gone for several minutes, during which time I fidgeted and worried my cuffs.
“Watson, did you experience this large degree of wastefulness in the army?” Holmes inquired.
“I was in the main preoccupied with trying to stay alive,” I said. “I didn’t take the time to study the administrative structure. But if pressed, I would admit to a certain number of orders challenging logic.”
“Clearly there have to be better ways to run the Admiralty,” Holmes said with obvious disdain. I could not argue with my companion but had no solution to offer so stayed silent on the subject.
“I appreciate the size and scale of the operation, but really find much of their organisational structure a most unnecessary waste of manpower. A fairly straightforward request such as ours should not require this many offices and so many more officers.”
With that, my companion, unsurprisingly, busied himself by examining our surroundings in microscopic detail.
On his return, Hampton looked smug. It was not a good look on him. “I am sorry, sirs, but I cannot release any information without authorisation from the mother or Admiral Milne himself. Good day to you.” His rough voice indicated he was done answering questions and I had to wonder if he had even bothered to look or had merely pretended to do his duty as part of some elaborate charade.
Holmes leaned forward. “One more question. Other than those two people, is there anyone else in the Admiralty whose signature would be valid proof to release the records?”
Hampton stared down at him and took his time answering.
“No, sir,” the man said, although there was a distinct lack of sincerity in his tone. “But should you wish to pursue the matter I would strongly suggest you go to the Naval Secretary’s office on the second floor. His clerk will have current pay records.” Before Holmes could reply the man had vanished from sight. He would undoubtedly not reappear until we had removed ourselves.
Holmes appeared to take this failure, consider it, and discard it as a final barrier. He clearly had it in his head to pursue every available resource in this building. His expression had darkened but he wisely held his tongue. We headed back towards the stairs once again.
“Interesting, Watson,” he said as we climbed the stairs, his irritation now subdued, replaced with rabid curiosity. “Did you notice he never referred to Wynter by name? Even refused to acknowledge anyone by that name served in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy.”
“Now that you mention it,” said I. “Most curious. I wonder what the next office will tell us.”
“Do you truly expect a different response?” asked Holmes. “I do not but we must investigate every avenue available before leaving this building.”
After several wrong turns we found the office of the Naval Secretary to the Board of the Admiralty. Holmes gripped the handle, swinging the door open and striding in with great purpose. It was one of his tricks, presenting himself as having the right to be wherever he was, in this case a man who had every right to barge into the office of the Naval Secretary. It was a gambit that worked more often than not.
A young lieutenant, based on the stripes on his uniform jacket, was in the process of putting papers in a cabinet and tidying his desk for the evening when Holmes and I entered. He barely paused in his work as he asked, “May I help you, gentlemen?”
“I am seeking information regarding Norbert Wynter, a lieutenant last seen serving aboard the Dido and now currently listed as Missing in Action, specifically the records of his pay,” Holmes said.
“And who might you be?”
“My name is Sherlock Holmes and this is Dr. John Watson. We represent the interests of his mother, who is understandably concerned about his whereabouts. Your name, sir?”
“Lieutenant Ward. The Dido you say? Let me see if I can be of some assistance,” the man said, a smile on his face. This was a pleasant surprise, the first cooperative navy man we had encountered that afternoon.
To my great surprise, he was remarkably accommodating.
“You came to the right place,” said Ward. “Civilian questions are handled in this very office and I get so few of those, you know. Some press inquiries now and then, but no, very few civilians such as yourselves.”
“We’re most happy to provide some variety,” said I.
He opened a drawer in the cabinet and withdrew a large book. “Normally I would ask you to speak with our assistant secretary, Edwin Swainson, but he is away from the Admiralty today.”
“I am sure you can provide what we need,” I said to encourage and speed along the man.
“Just who is the secretary these days?” asked Holmes. I had to admit, even I did not know as there appeared to be several changes in this post over the course of the last year.
Ward placed the book on the desk and opened it. I could see that it was filled with writing in many shades of blue and black ink and in many hands, from unreadable scrawl to elegant penmanship. He began to speak, reciting from memory, “Well, I could see your confusion as we are on our third Secretary in the past year alone. George Shaw-Lefevre just left and the current Secretary is George Trevelyan.”
The name was one familiar to me although Holmes’s expression indicated the name meant nothing to him. Trevelyan was a man of conscience, actually going so far as to resign as Civil Lord over some bit of legislation about a decade back. That alone earned him my estimation but now Gladstone saw fit as to place him in charge. He was someone I would very much like to meet one day.
The officer continued to thumb through the pages, licking his fingertip after every dozen or so turns, until he found a listing to his liking.
“Wynter, you say?”
“Yes,” Holmes said.
“Yes, he shipped out to Africa with the Dido, at least according to the pay records. His salary was paid up through July.” He closed the book, a look of satisfaction on his face that declared the job done.
“Interesting. So where is Wynter then?”
“I’m sorry?”
“His mother was informed he was Missing in Action as of February, now you say he was paid in July. So where is he? Your department is obviously aware of his whereabouts to make the payment, or else how would you reconcile these incongruous pieces of information?”
The man was stumped.
“Navy pay is not particularly good, is it?” Holmes commented.
The man looked confused. “Our wages are quite reasonable…”
“And yet you find yourself in need of additional income.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You must be quite exhausted working at a second occupation, no? Hauling coal, if I am not mistaken. Working at the Coal Exchange as a backer or sifter, I presume. Is the navy aware of this?”
“What the devil are you talking about, man?” Ward’s ready smile was gone, a look of suspicion in his eyes.
“On the one hand your pallor implies you work mainly indoors, yet a closer scrutiny shows thick callouses on your hands that the repetitious act of filing papers could not cause. So, obviously you are doing some sort of manual labour. Couple that with the fact that the underside of your nails are dark with black smudges of the kind you cannot simply clean away with soap and water. Coal dust.”
The man said nothing, avoiding our eyes, but the change in his demeanour was palpable.
“Are you trying to blackmail me?”
“Not at all, merely making conversation while you find the information we seek,” Holmes replied. So affable was his tone that I almost believed him, though there was seldom anything “merely” about anything my companion said or did. And while his tone sounded light, the look in his eyes was deadly serious, never leaving Ward.
“As I told you,” the lieutenant said, “our records indicate Wynter was paid in March, meaning he was alive to collect and sign for his wages. The records show he was paid through this month so he must not be dead. His mother must have been misinformed about his death in February, or she misremembered.” He appeared confident in his response, and clearly hoped that would be the end of it. But Holmes was not satisfied.
“Misremembered…” I began to interrupt this incompetent dolt, but Holmes spoke over me.
“I surmise that Mrs. Wynter was either misinformed or,” and he paused slightly, “wilfully told a lie.” He let the notion hang for a moment. “I also suspect someone has been collecting Wynter’s salary, though whether that is to defraud Her Majesty or complete a fiction that Wynter is here in London despite having failed to disembark the Dido remains to be seen. Of course, if that were the case, you would imagine a good son would have been in touch with his mother long before now. Something is most definitely amiss, and if the Admiralty will not facilitate my investigation, it will have to continue regardless.”
The man’s expression hardened. “Are you accusing me of lying, sir?”
“Not at all, I am sure your book says what you have relayed to me.”
“Then are you threatening me, sir?” The “sir” was snapped off, without any courtesy in the tone.
“Not in the slightest. Someone, though, is keeping a secret and I am very good at ferreting out secrets when I set the full force of my mind to it. Good day to you.”
Holmes turned his back on the man and strode from the office at a fast pace, stalking down the corridor with single-minded purpose that forced me to hurry to keep up with him.
We left the Admiralty under darkening skies filled with mist. Lights were being lit and the streets were noticeably busier as people began their journeys home.
I was disheartened during our journey back to Baker Street in a hansom. What I could not know then was that our visit spurred Lieutenant Ward into a frenzy of activity, cataloguing our activities at the Admiralty and sending a report bearing Wynter’s name to Parliament. We had ruffled a few feathers.
“If Wynter’s whereabouts were truly a matter of record keeping, either alive or dead, we would not have needed to be sent to so many offices. While I admit, the Board of the Admiralty may not have contained the precise information we sought, they sent us to the one office that should, that of Records, and yet, they provided no help. And the Naval Secretary, where they are chartered to aid in civilian matters, could tell us nothing.”
“You yourself noted there’s a certain inefficiency in such a large structure,” I said, all too familiar with the workings of the military.
Holmes nodded once.
“I noted in every instance hesitancy,” said Holmes. “None were helpful and all went through the motions. While we could not see the documents referenced, it strikes me that there may have been some notation or symbol, some signal that no vital information be revealed.”
“Why on earth would they trouble themselves so?” I asked.
Holmes’s eyes gleamed with interest. “That is the very question we need answered. It does, though, convince me we have a legitimate case before us.”
“This could not be chalked up to coincidence or bad management?”
“While I may not know the full workings of the Admiralty, I recognise deflection when I come up against it. No one, not even the smiling Ward, was genuinely willing to provide us with a service. The mere mention of Wynter’s name sent them to scan a list and from there we were sent on our merry way. I dare suggest Wynter is not alone, and an inquiry into the whereabouts of anyone on that list activates a bureaucratic mechanism designed to ultimately frustrate the asker while appearing to present them with an impenetrable wall of help that sends them home deflated and defeated. Instead, my dear Watson, it has only served to convince me something foul has happened to young Wynter.”
“How can you be certain it is foul and not, as they told his mother, desertion?”
“The notion of desertion is nonsense, Watson. Plain and simple. If that were the case, they would have told her outright rather than it taking her repeated visits and petitions to garner even that piece of questionable information, and it would be a matter of record. No need to hide the fact. But their obfuscation speaks of ill deeds.”
I nodded. Clearly there was something sinister at work. My companion peered out of the hansom’s window.
“It would appear that Mrs. Wynter has brought us a case that goes far deeper than I originally believed. Something happened to her son, either aboard the Dido or before he left South Africa, and the government is hiding the truth.” I couldn’t argue with that implacable logic. “It is our duty to expose that truth, Watson.” I couldn’t argue with that sentiment, either.